It’s 2015! And I’m writing this from my flying car pocket cyberspace deck. And 80s retro is as much a thing as 50s retro was in 1985. So let’s do some.

I was a teen in the 1980s, but my memories of the music of the era are fringe and fleeting; songs heard in passing the radio, cassette tapes found without context, cryptic references in magazines. But in the last few years, thanks to Youtube, I’ve been digging back thirty years into the music that still resonates with me, that seemed then (and still seems now) to carry a sense of the strange, science-fictional future we felt crashing into us. A future that has now at least partly arrived.

The centre of gravity for me is 1982. Reagan and Thatcher had reignited the Cold War. FM synthesis and 8-bit microcomputers were on the rise. The Space Shuttle had launched and Star Wars was politics as well as art. Keyboards were the new guitars. Between the embers of Disco, the rage of Punk and the art-school alienation of New Wave, a tiny, futuristic sound appeared. By the mid 80s it had faded and stadium rock and rap replaced it. But briefly, in that window of a few years, something magical, alien and crystalline, burned in the neon night.

And because Youtube isn’t the most stable archival platform in the world, and beautiful songs vanish daily, I want to blog some of my rediscoveries, before they’re lost in time forever.

Modern English are a, well, English, yes, 80s New Wave band. In the usual pattern for these things, they hit their stride around 1982 with the album After The Snow, did some more work into the 90s, have stayed on the fringe of the music scene and reformed around 2010 with a new album (Soundtrack), about most of which I have very little to say. They have a decent website with some band history.

It’s the After The Snow album, though, which stays with me. Apparently it wasn’t a huge success; the single which did do well (I’ll Melt With You) I find okay, but nothing I’d otherwise cross the road for. A fairly generic love ballad with some world-weary apocalyptic overtones (and Flock of Seagulls boilersuits in the video!) Only at the edges are the shifting harmonies that show what they’re really capable of:

I’ll stop the world and melt with youI’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the timeThere’s nothing you and I won’t doI’ll stop the world and melt with youThe future’s open wide

The opening track, Someone’s Calling, is a lot stronger. A dark vision of a fascist-feeling political rally that wouldn’t be out of place in a Pink Floyd album. A deeply felt anger at the Thatcher era with complex keyboard riffs in the background; this, to me, is the punk in cyberpunk.

The flames were dancing as the people shoutedThe streets they were alive as the stage was mountedA thousand cries of jubilation From the throes of this great people’s nation

And as our bridges burn to dustA useless feeling was quite enoughI felt a chill run with the nightSomeone’s calling in the night

I stop to thinkI stop to cryThe choice is always mineBut I’m too scared to judge

It’s the title track, though – After The Snow itself – which takes my breath away. The keyboard comes into its own. A deceptively simple repetitive motif while arpeggios unfurl from each end of the scale like fractals. It feels sleek, ultramodern, cybernetic, and yet it’s also an uplifting anthem that finds itself centred in the beauty of the natural world. It’s not about sex, it’s not about violence, it’s not filled with ennui or dread or loathing. It’s just beautiful and hopeful. This song ought to stand proudly in history beside Martha and the Muffins’ Echo Beach, and yet…

Sometimes we just doesn’t notice the right things.

The rhythm of the rain gives an off beat on the window pane Like an angel crying from the sky

I can see its beauty After the snow I can see its beauty After the snow

The temperature’s dropping rapidly Normal service will shortly be resumed

I can see its beauty After the snow I can see its beauty After the snow After the snow

I stood and watched the dark sky rise With glaring sunlight in my eyes I thought of all the times gone by And laughed aloud at the crimson sky

After the snow After the snow After the snow After the snow

After the snow There’s something born After the snow There’s something born

After the snow There’s something born After the snow There’s something born

After the snow After the snow

The rhythm of the rain gives an offbeat on the window pane Like an angel crying from the sky

Mainframe were exactly one of those blink-and-you’ve-missed-it events that, looking back on the ’80s, I find hard to believe were real. Did I only imagine them? Fortunately, they’re also one of the exceptions to the rule of synthpop bittrot: in this case a fan site exists with copies of their an LP and singles.

Mainframe were the duo of John Molloy and Murray Munro. They were active in England only from 1983 to 1985, producing one album, a handful of singles, some 8-bit micro software… and a digital synthesiser/sampler board for the Apple II, the DS:3.

In other words, these guys were right at the epicentre of the British microcomputing scene – probably the only serious musicians to have been so deeply hobbyist-geeky at the time. At least, they were the only ones who hit so close to my sphere of interests. I remember reading an article in a British computing magazine (which I still haven’t tracked down, but is likely up on the Internet Archive somewhere) describing the band, their synthesiser, and their magnum opus: the 1983 LP, Tenants of the Lattice-Work.

It’s a science-fiction concept album – with a concept that is never quite spelled out, but as far as I can tell is a Matrix-like story about a corporate employee who discovers that the world he knows is a computer simulation, and escapes.

The album forms a seamless whole and is part instrumental, so it really needs to be heard as a whole, But (since the MP3s have been released for free) I’ve put my favourite track up on Youtube so you can listen:

From the random lines a room began to formSo much stranger than beforeAll around I saw machine beside machineAnd I fear there could be more

Hold on, we must explain Changes are all around Hold on, this world’s not true Changes surrounding you

And in the silent room the air began to glow Shadows cast a human form Someone turned to me, someone called my name Then they told me I was wrong

Hold on…

And all they whispered to me I could not believe I had to shout to hold my course The truth they talked about I could not receive This must be a dream

Hold on…

This is 1983, remember. A year before William Gibson released Neuromancer (though a year after Burning Chrome, his first Matrix story, had been published). Though I haven’t found a written citation, the term ‘latticework of computers’ was, I’m sure, already out in the popular computing press (alongside ‘matrix’ and ‘grid’) to describe the early ARPANET and what it might evolve into. But it’s worth reiterating that the idea of living inside virtual worlds wasn’t by any means original even at this point. It was ‘in the air’ to anyone in the computing community in the early 80s with a science fiction imagination (which was all of us). And, to a large degree, the music community, at least those discovering samplers and sequencers. Mainframe and Tenants gives us one more data point of how these three communities overlapped.

I remember – and at least one Discogs commenter agrees – that the album was released as part of a competition, advertised in the 8-bit computer magaznes. (This being 1983 in the UK, almost everything was a competition – the 1982 adventure game Pimania had accelerated the trend).

Talk To Me, also in 1983, was a cross-media project that involved programs for 8-bit micros of the time, and was – I’m sure – advertised in the same magazines. I never managed to buy/play it, but at least the single survives. It remixes many of the themes of Track 6 of Tenants:

Blinding illusionSo much stranger than beforeIt’s feeding my confusionAnd I feel there could be more

Can you talk to meOr do I stand here alone?

In 1985, Mainframe literally had their five minutes of fame with ‘5 Minutes’, a sample-heavy single that doesn’t really do anything for me, but got far more commercial airplay than the beautiful Tenants. Which I find sad, but that’s showbiz for you. In any case, here it is. And this time do read the Youtube comments!

You stole my five minutes of fameYou told me time would heal the painThis world would bring me something newAnd like a child I trusted you

The other two singles from 1983 – The Room Part 2 and Radio (Will Bring Me Home) also feel like they’re part of the same universe as Tenants. Radio could be a replacement for Take The Road, and The Room Part 2 seems to be along the same lines as Machine Beside Machine / Talk To Me.

But I’ve picked Radio as the defining track for this band for two reasons: one, it’s radio-friendly when Tenants isn’t; and two, I remember actually hearing it on the radio in the 1980s. (New Zealand’s National Program had a total thing for British synthpop at the time). It left me with a deep sense of confusion… and that’s what makes the memory strong.

After computers and nuclear holocaust, ‘radio’ is a third theme that winds deeply through a lot of 80s synthpop. It was, after all, what we had back then instead of the Internet.

Out of München the traffic hunts me All the eyes switch to green Staring out, the pylon haunts me And the moment fills my screen

You think I live on the wild side But it’s just a normal day I’m trying to make some miles Over this land of motorways

Meanwhile, in 1972 New Zealand, a band named Dragon led by Todd Hunter and his brother Marc had formed and was putting out some pretty strange, Syd Barret-era Pink-Floydian psychedelia. As I’m discovering, time moves in strange loops and yes, I do remember hearing their first single Universal Radio. My reaction then was pretty much as it is now: ‘this is awesome! … wait… what… …. o_O …. I don’t even….’

I returned to find the village deadI was all alone, said fearless fireman Fred
Yes the situation’s getting grim
Someone tell me please just what it was I said
Universal radio, please don’t let me down
Universal radio, send someone around
Hello hello, I see you…

30 years later or so, I still don’t even. It’s about a fireman? And a dragon? And a radio? And a whole lot of vague self-indulgent Floyd-like synth and drum noodling in the middle? It’s not really science fiction and not really fantasy but it certainly says 1972 and probably inspirational consumption of herbal products. Take a listen if you want.

(But who the heck is that robot guy on the cover? Is it Darth Vader, five years ahead of schedule? Just shows there really aren’t very many unique visual ideas in science fiction.)

Anyway, it’s nice, but this is not the sound I’m looking for. Moving along into the 70s, Dragon and the Hunter brothers moved to Australia, dropped the prog-rock psychedelia, got famous, popped out some classics like 1979’s April Sun in Cuba which will never ever leave the New Zealand airwaves even after a nuclear war and is still not the sound I’m looking for, Marc got in trouble and the band fell apart.

In the fallout, Todd Hunter got together with Johanna Pigott from the XL Capris… and long story short, they’ve been together ever since, Dragon reformed, Pigott wrote the other Dragon classic everyone knows – 1983’s Rain – with it’s vaguely apocalyptic acid-rain / fallout imagery –

Don’t you go out in the rain
Don’t go out in the pouring rainIf you go out in the rainWe’ll never have that time again

and a bit more upliftingly, she wrote John Farnham’s 1988 anthem Age of Reason, which still gives me chills today.

So why can’t we be still why can’t we love each other Is kindness an ancient skill buried by our blindness And if we look behind us there’s a wind blowing in To create the age of reason

But the first single the Hunter / Pigott partnership produced was this one. And yes, I remember hearing it as a kid. I was younger than sixteen, and it resonated deeply. At the time it felt deeply implausible. Everyone knew World War Three would be mushroom clouds and over in seconds.

And yet.

It’s not synthpop but it is punk, with echoes of cyber, but more importantly, it catches the feeling of the time. Like Fay Ray. The simplicity, the honesty, the beauty, the terror of that lost decade, when it felt like the whole planet was spiralling into darkness with no hope in sight.

And somehow, unthinkably, we escaped.

Darkness falling on a battlefield Darkness falling on some dream down there Black oil slick on a headland Me in battle gear

Creeping on my knees down Main Street Underground assault on the undisclosed My best friend lost me in the haze Shockwave rips up the road

Oh, World War Three, World War Three Sixteen years closing in on me Keep me away from the enemy Please leave me out of the war Please leave me out of the war

Battle front rages on the news stand TV, he soften the blow We’re still planning our futures We were never meant to know

Surrounded by soldiers glued to the screensHold back the invaders, their infernal machines

The years 1977 to 1981 were a watershed of sorts for public interest in space. It was less than a decade since the height of the Apollo landings, and the hardware was still in orbit; human space flight wasn’t old enough to be retro yet, but the glamour had already worn off . Apollo 17 had left the Moon for the last time in December 1972, an Apollo had docked with a Soviet Soyuz in July 1975, and the imminent death of Skylab was filling the news (it had flown and been abandoned in 1973-1974), as the American space program waited for the launch of Apollo’s successor: the dangerous, over-budget and endlessly delayed Space Shuttle, which would still never be capable of reaching even the Moon, let alone beyond.

Meanwhile a small cancelled TV show called Star Trek (1966-1969; you’ve probably never heard of it) had ascended to immortality in syndication and merchandising, and was slowly and painfully struggling towards a sequel series (which would eventually diverge into the movie series and the Next Generation).

But the trigger point came in 1977 with the release of two blockbuster space movies: George Lucas’ Star Wars in May, and Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind in November. Both were huge successes for their studios, and the result was a shower of space and science fiction themed media products over the next few years. 1978 brought Superman, Battlestar Galactica, Blake’s 7 and Mork & Mindy. 1979 saw Alien, The Black Hole, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, James Bond jumping on the spacewagon with Moonraker, and the disappointing but spectacular first Star Trek movie. The scene was set for the 1980s model of science fiction drawing large audiences.

In fact let’s just have some disco Star Wars right now because why the heck not, right?

In September 1978 Jeff Wayne, a working composer and producer, dropped a musical version of the War of the Worlds on everyone and that became a megahit too. (The odd thing though, like Klaatu, is that he started in 1976: before the Star Wars phenomenon. What was it in the air?)

“The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one, he said…”

And in yet another strange case of synchronicity, a Japanese videogame developer named Tomohiro Nishikado was working on a space themed shooter game, and also drew on War of the Worlds for the imagery of the alien lifeforms. It seems to be pure coincidence that his game crashed into a pop zeitgeist freshly primed to watch the skies. But the world would never quite recover from the advent of these strange… invaders… from space…. I’m not quite sure what we should call them.

WHICH BRINGS US TO THE MAIN EVENT. The Australian musicians Russell Dunlop and Bruce Brown – like Jeff Wayne and Dominico Monardo, career producers and engineers, rather than stars – briefly jumped to immortality in 1979 as ‘Player One’ with a quickie single which is probably the best videogame parody ever (don’t look at me like that, there’s so many that it’s actually a genre. Don’t make me break out Pac-Man Fever. ) The B-side, ‘A Menacing Glow in the Sky’ is, to my mind, much better: a subtle, realistic take on the UFO invasion. But it’s so rare that it’ll probably evaporate. Take a look while it’s still up:

Player One followed the single with an album which I would love to get hold of: ‘Game Over’ which, if Menacing Glow is an indication of the quality, would be right in the tradition of experimental 1980s art-synthpop that so intrigues me now. But in its absence…

Ladies and gentlemen, the one, the ultimate, the legend in the Pacific: SPACE INVADERS.

You may dance when ready.

Through dark sunken eyes I see another pale sunrise Surrounded by soldiers glued to the screens Hold back the invaders, their infernal machines

Well the people stand in line behind the glass In the human arcade the image brigade see race and class

This one is just a mystery.

Discogs.com indexes it as the B-side of a vinyl 7″ single, Dizzy, from 1982, on “SiJenn Records”, whose only other release was a 1983 single by Rat Patrol. The band is Daemion. There are two voices, male and female.

Dizzy, I’m so dizzy my head is spinningLike a whirlpool it never endsAnd it’s you girl making me spin

But Human Arcade! I remember that! Or at least I seem to. I don’t know how, but I have a distinct sense memory of both the song – with its sci-fi premise of a robot uprising, the chirpy music, the band name – and, improbably, that cover image: a jester on a square-wheeled unicycle. And yes, I also seem to remember hearing ‘Dizzy’ and the disappointment of how lame it was compared to the B-side.

I seem to imagine remembering it as a 45 single rather than a cassette. A found artifact, discovered out of place on a street or in a room. But how would I have played it?

These things haunt one. Is it possible to completely fake such a memory? It seems so real.

And the song itself? Well, it seems to have lasted for others besides myself. To me, it’s a perfect little Twilight Zone episode in a song.

If it vanishes from Youtube tomorrow… at least someone may remember.

In the human arcade there are things to doThe corridor shines while I trace the lines on the mirror youAnd in the human arcade there are things to see, hee heeA penny here a penny there your very own favourite fantasyAnd when the evening calls we’ll follow youTo where you have to goBut if the night comes down too fast we’ll run from youAnd it’s time that you should know

That the human arcade’s been here for a while A year or two, or maybe threeNo-one is too sure you seeWell the people stand in line behind the glass In the human arcade the image brigade see race and classAnd when the evening calls we’ll follow youTo where you have to goBut if the night comes down too fast we’ll run from youAnd it’s time that we should go

And in the human arcade there is me and you girl There is no-one left alive in here to watch us die and disappearAnd in the human arcade we are on the run Cause we remember the times when the people did jobs and machines could runAnd in the human arcade there’s so much to doHuman arcade there is me and youHuman arcade lots to seeHuman arcade there is you and meIn the human arcade there is so much funHuman arcade we are on the runHuman arcade lots to seeWander round quite aimlesslyIn the human arcadeIn the human arcadeHuman arcade…

Spoons are a Canadian New Wave band based around the duo of Gordon Deppe and Sandy Horne, who have remained intermittently active from 1980 to today. Like many such bands, they have a website and are releasing remastered editions of their early albums as well as new material. (2011’s Static in Transmission).

From their second and breakthrough album, 1982’s Arias and Symphonies, the hit track was Nova Heart. Ominous, minimalist and yet anthemic and hopeful, it has a pulsing science fiction energy foreboding a world in the process of unimaginable transformation. And the children for which constant change would become normal.

It’s really a song about the Singularity, in other words. The word didn’t really exist in 1982 – although only just, as Vernor Vinge was to introduce it in a January 1983 Omni Magazine editorial . But the concept was certainly there, especially in the early years of the 1980s, very close under the skin of popular culture. They were years of extreme change both socially and technologically, and a sudden cultural shift to a “head first into the future” attitude which… well, was honestly both thrilling and terrifying at once. A kind of optipessimism I think, describes the early 1980s best. We felt were were on the verge of shattering change. It wasn’t just going to be better or worse: it was going to be all better or all worse. Or – as in Gibson’s cyberpunk – both at once, “just not evenly distributed”.

There was especially a lot of optipessimism about artificial intelligence; more than we have now in the Internet-connected world we could only dream about with our 8-bit micros. The fears usually revolved around either automation causing mass unemployment (which is coming back on the radar again in the 2010s), or automated war machines starting World War III or hunting humans (also coming back).

You can trace the shape of some of these AI ideas as an argument evolving through pop culture: Knight Rider (1982), WarGames (1983), Terminator (1984), Short Circuit (1986). Robots would save us or destroy us, or maybe both. By the mid-80s, though, computers (and especially videogames) had become a little less novel, less scary, and the shape of the stories shifted from computer-as-God to computer-as-business-tool.

Were we just ahead of our time, or on the edge of a wave that hasn’t yet crested?

Either way, we were sure that the future was going to be way different; and now that we’re in it, a mixture of relieved, disappointed, and scared that it might yet all come true just as we imagined it.

Architects of the world I walk your streets and live in your towns Temporarily, architects of the world You’ve served us well until now But soon we’ll be on our own

And I’ll sleep, sleep in your Nova heart As things come apart

I’ll hide, hide in your Nova heart At ease with the thought That this nova won’t burn out

Gentlemen of the world I read your books and look at your art Hesitantly, gentlemen of the world You want to educate our young But soon they’ll be on their own

And I’ll sleep, sleep in your Nova heart As things come apart

I’ll hide, hide in your Nova heart At ease with my thoughts

And I’ll sleep, sleep in your Nova heart As things come apart

And I’ll rest, rest in your Nova heart At ease with the thought That this nova won’t burn out

This kind of song is the reason the Internet exists. It appears to be a one-shot single, released in 1981 by Magnet Records (now part of Warners), with a not particularly memorable B-side: “Working Model”, which, well, here you go:

The band is The Quarks: the duo of Rod Bowkett and Martin Ansell . In 1982, the Quarks rebranded as President President and released a second single (All Good Men / b-side Skin of the Salamander), but neither of those quite do it for me. Bowkett and Ansell continued with separate careers and remain active today.

I don’t recall hearing the song itself at all before I found it on Youtube; though the cover art and the name stirs faint resonances. I’m guessing I maybe saw it in a record store, or a magazine?

At over 6 minutes it feels a little long for radio and not quite high-energy enough for dance. But as a time capsule of that brief era when it was okay to make pop songs about industrial malaise and the fear of automation… or, well, any idea at all… it’s brilliant.

If anyone can help translate all of the words, I’d appreciate it.

He said I’ve got my father’s aching handsI’ve got ulcers tooYou’ve got your mothers looks but she’s forty-fiveAnd I’m twenty-twoWe go to work and we take the strainSlip off the head and remove the brainThe technological 80s, oh it’s growingMechanicalMechanical

I could’ve sworn I saw a key in your back todayHe said it might be trueWe took a look in the workshop windowAnd I’ve got one tooWe clocked out and I drove you homeWe talked of metal and the price of chromeThe technological 80s, oh it’s growingMechanical

Mechanical…

Somebody blew a fuse in our officeThey told his wifeIf he’d only had a circuit diagramThey could have saved his lifeShe cried and cried until she finally died She wasn’t waterproof, it got insideThe technological 80s, oh it’s growingMechanical

We’re mechanical now, we’re mechanical now, we’re mechanical now

I have to spend a lot of time these daysBeside the seaI have to keep well away from city lifeMy allergyBut I’ve always got a battery packIn case I get another heart attackThe technological 80s, oh it’s growingMechanical

Living in boxes covered in lead In three foot of concrete to keep us from the dead

In January to May of 1980, the issue of nuclear war burst into British popular culture with the announcement and eventual publication of a secret Civil Defence pamphlet and video series – the now infamous “Protect and Survive“.

The grossly inadequate nature of nuclear Civil Defence was already a contested topic in the UK with Peter Watkins’ banned 1965 docudrama The War Game. But the bleak, bland, useless advice of these materials and the public scandal caused by the initial sense of secrecy (they were released to the general public only after much protest) came to symbolise a British Government that was sleepwalking into a nuclear war and failing to either inform or consult the citizens. The public’s outrage and despair exploded into a cascade of nuclear protest songs that continued across the English-speaking world and throughout the 1980s.

Meanwhile, the other big concern of British popular culture at the end of the 1970s was computers: specifically the impact of “the microchip” and “computerisation” on an economy already reeling from oil price shocks, labour struggle and industrial failures. This sense of looming crisis crystallised in the UK in the form of a series of documentaries: BBC’s “Now The Chips Are Down” in 1978, ITV’s “The Mighty Micro” in 1979, and BBC’s “The Silicon Factor” in 1980. These led directly to the BBC Computer Literacy Project, and the government-promoted BBC Micro computer.

“Inside here is a silicon chip, with all the important components of a computer etched onto its tiny surface. It’s called a microprocessor. “

“Most people know by now that a microprocessor, or a ‘chip’ as it’s often called, is an incredibly tiny computer. And there’s a general feeling that it represents a dramatic breakthrough in technology. But few realise just how dramatic.”

Both of these documentaries made it to New Zealand; I remember watching ‘Now The Chips Are Down’ in school, and the paperback book of ‘The Mighty Micro’ (which proclaimed that artificial intelligences, or ‘Ultra Intelligent Machines’, would replace professional jobs by the year 2000). There was a strong belief that ‘the microchip’ would either make life a paradise, automate away all our jobs… or, and most likely in the short term, just power the military weapons that would bring about World War III and destroy everything we knew.

‘Protect and Survive’ didn’t come to New Zealand – we had no expectation of direct nuclear attack and so our Civil Defence was limited to natural disasters – but its pop culture byproducts certainly did.

And so, in the spirit of both of these trends, the prize for the Most 1981 Synthpop Band of 1981 goes to: the British trio Data, with the terrifyingly catchy dance single ‘Fallout’. A sort of experimental side-continuation project for the classically-trained Norwegian (/Russian/French) singer Georg Kajanus, Data’s first album also featured the pop-classical piece “Opera Electronica”. Which was fairly normal for the era: hybrids of pop, rock, dance, classical and just straight-up art school experimentation. That’s what makes it so fascinating, even thirty years later.

But. Back in 1981, Fallout is a perfect pop jewel. Listen! This is where Ladytron stole their sound from! (And that riff at 2:36 feels like it was ‘borrowed’ whole from the Doctor Who theme, so the favour is returned.)

It’s a shock to hear it again. I thought it was new, but no, on reflection I’m pretty sure I absorbed this one in the background of 80s life. Somehow, like radiation, it just slipped through. I remember being puzzled by what a “phone [in] show” might be; and “a satellite clockwork information” really doesn’t make any more sense now than it did then.

But has there ever been a more aggressively cheerful, danceable political protest song about a grim postapocalyptic future?

There will be no three minute warning. Your input is not required. YOU WILL DANCE.

Whatcha gonna do now? Where ya gonna go? You always had the answers on your phone-in show It’s never gonna happen, or so you did say For no one really wants it – but here we are today With a fallout It’s a fallout

You’d better run for shelter and put yourself in a fallout suit You’d better get yourself used to just living in a fallout suit A satellite clockwork information is going to give you the duration Of the fallout

So what are we going to do now, now that it’s here? But listen to you talking about the after care Living in boxes covered in lead In three foot of concrete to keep us from the dead It’s a fallout It’s a fallout

You’d better run for shelter and put yourself in a fallout suit You’d better get yourself used to just living in a fallout suit A satellite clockwork information is going to give you the duration Of the falloutIt’s a fallout

In a crowd, in a city I call my homeUndercover, on the edge I move alone

The Canadian New Wave band Martha and the Muffins are better known for their 1980 international hit Echo Beach (the name a reference to the 1977 Ultravox song Hiroshima Mon Amour, itself a reference to a 1959 French film – it’s references all the way down!)

It’s a great video, by the way. Aren’t they all so young??!

But strangely, I never actually heard Echo Beach at the time.

During the mid 1980s, the Muffins dropped to a duo and renamed themselves as M+M. (Definitely NOT to be confused with Eminem.) This was happening even by 1983 – Danseparc was titled with both band names. But like many of their peers, they made a comeback in the synthpop resurgence of the 2000s and their latest album, Delicate, was released in 2010.

There are still some gems for me from the 1990s period; 1992’s Rainbow Sign is one. Capturing perhaps that newfound sense of optimism in the wake of cancelled Armageddon that was so rare and precious to see in 90s media (which usually went for the dark, bleak and weird). It reaches my soul. But it’s a different feeling from a different time.

No, the Muffins song that haunted my 80s was 1983’s Danseparc (Every Day It’s Tomorrow). I probably only heard it a couple of times; almost certainly on AM radio. It has all the cyberpunk elements though… urban mystery, science, future shock, a hint of romance… and what is that face laser scanner thing?

In a crowd, in a city I call my home Undercover on the edge I move alone Faces stare across at me With eyes that look but cannot see Out of reach, out of love, stepping out of bounds. Every day it’s tomorrow and I never know what tomorrow will be Every day it’s tomorrow and I feel someone move close to me Every day it’s tomorrow and I never know what tomorrow will be Every day it’s tomorrow and to dance with you is all I need.

(Into the thick, into the night, into your arms in the failing light.)

Danseparc!

In a park, in a city I call your name Will the way that we dance always be the same? Hold me fast, draw me near Don’t let love disappear Come to life, come together, steal me from my sleep.

Every day it’s tomorrow and I never know what tomorrow will be Every day it’s tomorrow and I feel someone move close to me Every day it’s tomorrow and I never know what tomorrow will be Every day it’s tomorrow and to dance with you is all I need…

(Into the thick, into the night, into your arms in the failing light.)

The Welsh New Wave band Fay Ray (another media reference, this time to the King Kong actress Fay Wray; and completely unrelated to the current Japanese singer fayray ) appear to have released one album, Contact You, in 1982. But they must have made airplay in New Zealand because I distinctly remember shivering to the nuclear apocalypse imagery of “Heatwave”.

I watch the mushroom As it rises in a cloud We see the heatwave But we hear no sound

But it’s the heartbreaking live performance of “Different Morning”, which I only know from this Youtube clip, which sells the band to me. It feels like the perfect description of the Reagan/Thatcher era – an era that feels all too close again.

I live in a country Where the cold and bleak winds blow Storm clouds are gathering Sometimes i wish i didn’t know We’ve been building a castle To protect us from the fight But castle walls will never, Never keep us safe at night

Warning warning can’t you hear it Leave your dreaming yesterday This is a different morning And we’ve got to break away

Warning warning can’t you hear it Leave your dreaming yesterday This is a different morning Watch the future slip away

Something is changing Look at everyone you meet Down in the city They’re counting numbers in the street A thousand empty eyes Looking for trouble in the heat

Warning warning can’t you hear itLeave your dreaming yesterday This is a different morning And we’ve got to break away

Warning warning can’t you hear it Leave your dreaming yesterday This is a different morning Watch the future slip away